Reading Poetry

Thank goodness for the Miami Dade Public Library system! With all the background reading I like to do, and a wicked case of bibliographic ADHD, I could never afford every single book that I wanted to read.

I would not go so far as to be an anti-Keating, the teacher in Dead Poets Society (Robin Williams), plotting poetry on an x and y axis. Even I know that lacks sex appeal, and hey what else is poetry meant to be, if not sexy.

But I feel unfinished somehow when I read poetry, like I need more. Or maybe I need to learn how to read poetry. Especially the abstract sort.

As for trying to write poetry, I like the constraint of form. Of course, this is anathema to Romantic notions of genius, an artist sitting in a sun dappled scene, hand moving across the page, words magically flowing, she knoweth not from whence they came.

Harold Bloom seems a good place to start, but my goodness, what an intimidating bibliography!

I waver between a need for constraint and a rebellion against it, intuitively knowing that literary criticism can be a tool for control that maintains privilege, stifles creativity and limits experimentation.

But no need to jump in the deep end, into a big wide ocean of words. I could drown.